


Studious

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Grinding, Libraries, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless, Studying, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Remus spends too much time in the library." Remus is devoted to his studies, and Sirius tries very diligently to not interrupt him. This only works for so long.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scaluwag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaluwag/gifts).



Remus spends too much time in the library.

Sirius has always thought so. It’s not right for a member of the Marauders to be so studious, as he’s informed Remus on several occasions; it’s important to have some fun now and then, to not be seen as a know-it-all who can do nothing but read textbooks all day long. Sirius has been espousing this view since they were first-years and Remus first began to display signs of alarming academic responsibility; since their relationship’s recent progression, his arguments have only gained traction. It’s something of a personal affront, Sirius thinks, to have his own boyfriend abandon him in favor of dusty books and overlong homework assignments; the only reason he sees for spending time in the library is to take advantage of the shadows of the especially unpopular aisles of books, the ones that offer more privacy than the too-popular Astronomy Tower or the dorm room they share with too many of their friends. He held himself ready for such an undertaking for some weeks, since he first suggested the idea; but Remus coolly ignored him in that way he does when he gets his head down into his studies, and Sirius was left to huff frustration and go work out his excess energy on the Quidditch pitch with James.

He’s given up, by now. The end-of-year exams are coming up, and Sirius knows from too much past experience that he’ll never be able to win a victory over Remus’s books at this time of year. Better to resign himself to a week of abandonment by his boyfriend and amuse himself as best he can while he waits for the curse of studying to release Remus from its hold for what Sirius expects to be a highly pleasant and well-enjoyed winter break.

James is no help either. Usually Sirius can count on the other two members of the Marauders to support him when his favorite werewolf decides to sequester himself in his studies; but James is seeing the upcoming winter break as long weeks apart from the redheaded object of his affections, and Sirius never quite knows what to do with Peter when it’s just the two of them alone. So he leaves James to trail Lily, and Peter to trail James, and he throws himself into all the pursuits he used to depend upon to occupy himself before he collected his current band of friends.

That means flying, mostly. Sirius likes flying, even if he’s not dedicated to it the same way that James the Quidditch star is; he likes the physical exertion of it, and the way it leaves his body warm and pleasantly achy by the end of the day, and the way his mind clears to just a faint hum of appreciation as his attention is given over to the movement of the wind in his hair and the shift of the ground below him. He spends a handful of days like that, wandering around the castle grounds from the heights of the air above them and even venturing just over the borders of the Forbidden Forest, which looks far less foreboding from the heights he achieves; once he sweeps by the Shack, left silent and abandoned for the few weeks of respite Remus is currently enjoying, but he only glances at it before continuing back to the castle and the empty Quidditch pitch. It’s not a bad way to spend the time, he thinks; he’ll be happy to linger in the sky until Remus is ready to emerge from his books long enough to pay attention to him again.

And then it rains.

Sirius should have expected that. It’s hardly as if they don’t have rain enough all times of the year, and the more with December rapidly progressing towards Christmas; and if it were just rain Sirius could handle it, he thinks, could set out with a few drying charms and a coat spelled to imperviousness and he would have no problem. But this is a storm, a big one, the kind that rattles in the tree branches and sets the ghosts to frowning at the gusting wind that creeps in the edges of the windows, and Sirius has a reputation for being reckless but even he isn’t so foolish as to go out flying in the middle of a thunderstorm. James is nowhere to be found, Peter is struggling through homework assignments put off too long; and so Sirius steels himself, and checks his hair in the mirror, and goes to take on the library.

He knows Remus will be there. It’s where the other all but lives, recently; Sirius isn’t sure he’s been back to Gryffindor Tower in the last few days, is certain he hasn’t emerged for such paltry things as meals. He suspects Remus to have made arrangements with a few of the house elves to have sandwiches and tea brought to him; or, at least, Sirius hopes that to be the case, because the alternative is that Remus is slowly wasting away amidst the piles of books he’s decided to bury himself in in preparation for their exams. Sirius _does_ have another reason for visiting -- he intends to lay claim to one of the mystery novels he reads whenever he can manage it without James teasing him -- but it’s a nice chance to check on his absent boyfriend too, and to stage an intervention if Remus needs it.

The library is very quiet when Sirius comes in. This is the more impressive for the number of people in it; nearly every desk is full with anywhere from one to four people crowding in over textbooks and homework assignments and review sheets. There are flashcards hovering in the air like so much snow, and the whisper of dozens of quills dragging ink across smooth parchment; but no voices at all, not so much as a murmur even from the clusters of study groups formed around the tables. Sirius is impressed in spite of himself -- he can’t imagine ever being as quiet as everyone here has achieved without the use of a Silencing Spell -- but he’s looking for one person rather than admiring the crowd, and his attention is only fleeting as he considers and dismisses other students as not the one he wants.

He finds Remus in the back corner of the main space. He’s laid claim to a table all by himself, with books and papers enough spread over the surface to remove even the possibility of someone else joining him before they might even think to ask. He has his head ducked down over the textbook in front of him, one arm bracing along the top edge of it and the other up so he can wind his fingers in against the dusty bronze of his hair. The strands are feathery, tousled up over his head by the drag of the other’s fingers and the too-rare application of a comb; it makes Sirius think of less studious times, when it’s the weight of his own hands to drag Remus’s hair out of order and the press of his lips close against the other’s mouth to urge the part of soft lips to flushed heat. But Remus’s mouth is relaxed on focus, now, his attention devoted to the book in front of him instead of pinned to Sirius himself, and much though Sirius would love to undo that he doesn’t want to face the frown of displeasure at Remus’s lips that will come with being interrupted, doesn’t want to pull Remus’s gaze to him only to see the other’s expression collapse into frustration. Remus looks well enough, at least, neither shaky with hunger nor shadow-eyed with exhaustion, so Sirius turns away to leave him to his studies, and makes his way into the shelves in pursuit of his own goal.

It’s something of a challenge to find. The organizational scheme of the library is archaic at best and nonexistent at worst; Sirius personally thinks that’s the consequence of generations of librarians too unwilling to share their hard-earned knowledge to anyone outside the approved sphere of assistants and apprentices. He could ask for assistance at the front desk; but he doesn’t want to brave the scowl that will come with interrupting the breathless silence at the front, or the judgment that he’ll receive for his frivolous choice of reading material during the week before finals, so he wanders instead, treading up and down the bookshelves and idly considering the texts laid out upon them without more than glancing at the names. By the time he’s rounding the corner of the third aisle he’s all but forgotten what he was looking for in the first place; his attention is wholly given over to the variety of books in front of him, to the shift in color and size and binding, and as he reaches the end of his current row he’s already considering the next, his idle attention caught for at the least the present by the unthinking exploration he’s engaged in.

And then he turns the corner, and Remus is there in front of him.

It’s something of a shock to come face-to-face with someone else so abruptly, even if someone Sirius is always in the mood to see. His eyes go wide, his balance tips him backwards to stumble for his footing against the smooth-polished floor beneath him; he has to grab at the edge of one of the shelves to save himself, and even then he doesn’t let go for a moment, as his attention is wholly dedicated to making sense of what’s right in front of him.

“Remus,” Sirius gasps, his voice louder than it should be against the soft of the library around them. He cringes into self-consciousness, tries to drop his volume to a more reasonable level for the circumstances. “What are you--”

“Quiet,” Remus says, his voice sharp and snapping over the resonance of an order, and Sirius obeys instantly, his throat closing off to silence even as his eyes go wide at hearing that unfamiliar tone at Remus’s lips. Sirius blinks, trying to gain some grasp of what’s happening; but Remus isn’t giving him a chance to collect himself. He’s stepping in instead, a hand coming out to steady and brace at the back of Sirius’s head, and Sirius is just sucking in a startled breath at the contact when Remus is on him, and Remus’s mouth is against his, and everything else stops mattering for a moment.

Sirius likes kissing Remus. It’s always a pleasure no matter the situation, whether it’s a quick, rushed drag of friction in a few seconds of unusual privacy in the common room or a longer unhurried exploration after the moonlit nights that leave Remus so haggard and so in need of comfort. They’ve kissed behind the Quidditch pitch, and up in the Astronomy Tower, and in Remus’s bed, once, when they had the dorm room to themselves for what Sirius stanchly believes to be the greatest half-hour of his life. This is as enjoyable as any, perhaps the more so for how long it’s been since Sirius last familiarized himself with the part of Remus’s lips and the pant of his breathing; and Remus is forceful, this time, as he so rarely is, he’s pushing Sirius back and up against the end bookshelves and tightening his hand against the other’s neck as if to pin him to stillness, and Sirius’s mind is spinning but he likes this, he likes all of this, from the way Remus’s fingers are twisting into his hair to the way Remus’s hips fit against the reflexive grip of his hands to the hammering speed of the other’s heart in his chest where he’s pressed close against Sirius. Sirius had suggested this before, as much in jest as sincerely; but he never expected Remus to actually take him up on it, never expected his studious boyfriend to--

 _Oh no_.

“Remus,” Sirius says, but the sound is lost to Remus’s lips, the hum of vibration in his throat spills against Remus’s tongue and is lost. Sirius tries to collect himself, tries to figure out how to urge Remus away. “Wait, no, Remus. Or. Whatever you are.”

Remus pulls away for a moment. His hand is still fisted in the length of Sirius’s hair, his palm is still bracing close against the other’s neck, but he’s far enough for Sirius to see, at least, or to see better than the close-up blur of dark lashes and parted lips he was getting before. “ _Whatever_ I am?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, and then he has to swallow, because Remus’s eyes are wide and dark, the pupils blown out to absorb all the tawny gold of their usual color. It’s hard to remember what he was thinking, hard to think about _anything_ when the other has him pushed up against the support of the bookshelf behind him, but: “You’re. You’re not Remus.”

The other’s eyebrow raises, just one, arching high above those blown-dark eyes and creeping towards a tangled hairline. “Really.”

Sirius nods. “Yeah,” he says, and then gestures towards the whole of the apparent Remus Lupin in front of him. “I mean, I don’t know if you’re a...an incubus, maybe, but I don’t know how you’d make it past the wards, or if got your hands on Polyjuice from somewhere, in which case you ought to let me know where, I could do a lot with that. But my boyfriend is this...this prefect wannabe, really, there’s no way he’d give up studying for exams to make out with me in the library, and I mean I appreciate your enthusiasm but I really love him and I’m not all that interested in kissing anyone other than him, as it were.”

The other is staring at him. There’s a smile tugging at the very corner of his lips. “You don’t think I’m me.”

“Well you can’t be, you see,” Sirius informs him. “Because you’re still studying where you were when I came in, you wouldn’t stop for anything short of the apocalypse. You probably should have done some more research on Remus before you tried to impersonate him.”

There’s a true smile against the other’s mouth now; it’s crinkling at the corners of his eyes, tugging very slightly lopsided against the faint scars marking over the familiar lines of his face. “Sirius.”

Sirius shakes his head. “There’s no point in trying to convince me now. Did James put you up to this, or was it--”

“ _Padfoot_ ” and it’s so sharp and sudden that it’s enough to stop Sirius’s continuing protest dead at his lips even before he processes the implication of that nickname. His eyes go wide, he blinks hard as if to clear his vision; but Remus is still standing in front of him, his gaze still fixed on Sirius’s face, and his mouth is tight on the pressure of anger or repressed laughter, Sirius isn’t sure which one.

“Oh,” Sirius says. “Moony.”

“You are an enormous idiot,” Remus tells him. “Did you ever think I might be missing you as much as you miss me?”

“I am,” Sirius agrees, immediately, because Remus is always right about that. “And no. That’s impossible.”

Remus’s lashes dip over his eyes, he hums something soft and inquiring in the back of his throat. “Really,” he says. “Why is it so impossible, pray tell?”

“Because,” Sirius says, his composure fraying as Remus’s fingers wind in against his hair and Remus’s gaze slides down from his eyes to his mouth. “Because you’re perfect, and I’m an idiot, and I’m ridiculously lucky that you went starking raving mad and decided to fall in love with me.”

Remus’s eyebrow has gone up again. “Padfoot.”

Sirius blinks. “Yes, Moony.”

“You really _are_ an idiot.”

“Yes,” Sirius agrees, and then Remus is on him again, closing the gap between them as fast as he draws Sirius’s mouth in against his. His grip is sure, his hands steady; he’s the one who opens his mouth to taste against Sirius’s tongue, and Sirius is left to part his lips in surrender and tighten the hold at Remus’s hips that feels a lot more like a grounding point for himself than it did. Remus pushes close against him, his knee sliding to work between Sirius’s, and Sirius makes a sound so low and wanting in his throat that he’s grateful it’s caught by the weight of Remus’s mouth before anyone elsecan hear it. Remus’s touch strokes over the back of his neck, Remus’s hand slides over his shoulder and down against the flat of his chest, and Sirius is shuddering with how hard he’s struggling for air even before Remus pulls away to gasp hot against his lips.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” Remus says against Sirius’s mouth, softly enough that it fits against the quiet of the space but with so much heat that Sirius can feel his knees go weak at the sound. “I kept hoping you would come by so I could get you into one of these dark aisles.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Sirius says, his words desperate and his mind reeling. “I thought you wanted to study.”

“I do.” Remus’s hand is sliding down over Sirius’s shirt; the weight of his touch pins the fabric close against Sirius’s racing heart, drags friction over a sensitive nipple until Sirius groans faintly and clutches hard at Remus’s hips. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you.”

Sirius huffs an exhale, tries to fill his lungs with something other than the rich smell of Remus’s skin, something beyond the heat that he would swear he can almost see radiating off the other’s lips. “You were fantasizing about me while studying?” he asks, and manages to pull the quirk of a smile onto his lips. “You’re a naughty boy, Moony.”

Remus’s lashes dip, Remus’s eyes shade to dark. “Yes,” he says instead of voicing the protest Sirius more than half-expected. “Very” and he’s leaning in again, pushing Sirius back against the bookshelf behind him and bracing him steady while his hand slides down the taut flat of the other’s stomach. Sirius makes a sound at Remus’s lips, feels his whole body tensing in a half-formed attempt to buck forward against the other’s touch, but he doesn’t have to; Remus is arching in against him, pinning Sirius back against the support at his shoulders and sliding his leg up higher between the other’s thighs. Sirius’s knees shift apart, his body submitting reflexively to the certainty of Remus’s movement, and against the top of his pants Remus’s fingers catch at his waistband, Remus’s hold braces to steady against his fly. Remus draws back by an inch, just enough to pant for air over Sirius’s mouth, and against Sirius’s hips the other’s hand is sliding down, Remus’s palm is grinding in against the front of his jeans.

“I’ve been thinking about it for days,” Remus _purrs_ , and Sirius has always thought the idea of that sound to be a little bit silly but it’s different when it’s happening to him, when he can feel the thrum of the words spilling over his mouth as Remus’s hand weights against him to press friction against Sirius hard inside his jeans. “I thought about getting you into the shadows, back here, where no one comes, so I could get my hands on you properly.” His fingers tighten, elegant strength pressing hard against Sirius; Sirius’s hips cant forward of their own accord, his breathing rushes out of him in a whimper better suited for his Animagus form than his current one.

“Maybe I could bring you off like this,” Remus says, and Sirius can hear a growl under his voice, can hear _Remus_ in the tone, the real Remus, the one with dark eyes and a flashing smile and hands that lay claim to Sirius’s body without hesitation, that settle into ownership of his heart as if they were laying a collar around his neck, as if to offer the mastery that some deep-down part of Sirius craves even more than the independence he so flaunts. “With my hand over your mouth to keep you quiet and your pants open around your hips, is what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Oh,” Sirius gasps. “Bloody hell.”

“Quiet,” Remus tells him. “We’re in a library” but his fingers are pressing in closer, his palm is grinding against the front of Sirius’s pants, and Sirius can’t catch his breath and can’t stop his legs from shaking and can’t pull away, can’t think, can’t do anything at all but surrender to the friction Remus is pressing into him. There are fingers at his neck, a hand curling close against his hair; when Remus tips in Sirius can feel the heat of the other’s breathing against his mouth, can catch the rush of the other’s panting inhales at his lips. There’s pressure against him, the whole length of Remus’s body holding Sirius back against the bookshelf behind him, and for a moment Sirius can imagine it, can see it as clearly as if Remus had painted him a picture: Remus’s hands under his clothes, wandering across his body, undoing all Sirius’s composure into panting, desperate want. Remus could push him over the edge into orgasm like this, Sirius is sure, could push at his shoulder and urge Sirius down to his knees in front of him to open his mouth and tip forward into surrender and Sirius wants it, wants Remus, wants anything and everything Remus will give him with a desperate, anxious greed that demands everything, now, immediately, just as they are. He doesn’t care that they’re in a library, doesn’t care about the possibility of getting caught; if Remus wants him, Sirius will reach out both hands and take everything Remus is willing to give him.

Remus gives him a lot. There’s the weight of his hand at Sirius’s clothes, the rush of his breathing at Sirius’s mouth; when he leans in to fit his lips to the other’s Sirius opens his mouth at once, lets Remus taste the heat of his tongue and the ticklish space against the roof of his mouth. Remus’s fingers are in Sirius’s hair, Remus’s lashes are skimming Sirius’s cheek; and then Remus takes a breath, and Sirius can hear the retreat at the other’s mouth before he even draws back from Sirius’s lips.

“I’m not going to finish this here,” he says, and his voice is level, even, that faintly professorial tone he drops into sometimes when he’s absolutely determined on some course of action. The palm against Sirius’s pants slides away, drags up to curl and steady at the other’s hip instead. “I really _do_ have to study.”

Sirius has to struggle to find moisture for his lips, has to fight to fill his lungs with air enough to speak. “Moony,” he manages, finally, sounding as raw and overheated as he feels. “You are a terrible cocktease.”

“Mm,” Remus hums, looking down at Sirius’s shirt as if it has more interest to him than the other’s face. “In the library, perhaps.” He tugs at the hem of the other’s shirt to straighten it, pursing his lips as he considers of the other’s appearance. His mouth is still swollen red from the weight of Sirius’s mouth against it. “Fantasies notwithstanding, I’d be evicted permanently if we were caught doing anything worse than what we just were.”

“Tease,” Sirius says again, in tones of deep judgment only slightly marred by the way his voice is quavering over heat in his throat. “Starting things you won’t finish. Awful of you, my dear boy.”

“I never said I wouldn’t finish them,” Remus says, and when his gaze cuts back up to Sirius’s face Sirius can feel his blood go to steam in his veins like it’s answering the weight of intention behind the shadow of Remus’s lashes. “Just not _here_.” He tugs at Sirius’s shirt sharply, dragging at the seams to pull them back into place. “You really must work on your attention to detail, Padfoot.”

“Ah,” Sirius says. “Yes. Of course you’re right.”

“I do expect I’ll be coming back to the Tower late tonight,” Remus says, looking back down as he smooths his hands needlessly across Sirius’s shirt. “Rest is very important for information retention, after all, and napping on the library tables just isn’t enough for more than a day or two.” He tips his head to the side and purses his lips consideringly. “Of course, coming into bed so late, it’ll be dark, and I won’t want to wake anyone by having a light.”

“Of course,” Sirius agrees, seeing the shape of suggestion forming itself around the level calm of Remus’s words. “You’re hardly to be blamed if you stumble into the wrong bed by mistake.”

“I knew you’d understand,” Remus says, and looks back up to meet Sirius’s eyes. “Do warn the others for me, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I’ll tell them anything at all.”

Remus’s mouth quirks on a laugh, his eyes crinkle to shadowy amusement. “How good are the Silencing Charms on your bed curtains?”

“Not sure,” Sirius admits. “I recast them just last week but you never know for sure until you do a hands-on test, don’t you?”

“Mm,” Remus hums, his hand sliding back up over Sirius’s shirt with too much the shape of a caress to pass for smoothing the fabric even incidentally. “That’s certainly best practice, yes.”

“You’d better help me with it,” Sirius says. “Isn’t practical experience part of studying too?”

“You’re right.” Remus’s hand is sliding back over Sirius’s collar to settle against the back of his neck once more. “Who would have expected you would be so willing to help me with studying?”

“Don’t tell James,” Sirius says. “My reputation would be ruined.”

Remus huffs a laugh against his mouth. “My lips are sealed,” he says, and leans in to suit actions to words.

Sirius has never enjoyed a trip to the library as much as this one.


End file.
